


the kindest thing

by smolpot8o



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Ableism, Autistic Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Canon-Typical Violence, Chamomile, Gen, Geralt is both touch-starved and touch-repulsed, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier being a weighted blanket, Jaskier | Dandelion Has ADHD, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Sensory Overload, Tavern Brawl, baths, cuddling for warmth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23249569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolpot8o/pseuds/smolpot8o
Summary: Jaskier catches on to all the ways that the witcher is different, and does his best to protect him, in his own way, from a world that doesn't tolerate different.(Or: Geralt is autistic, Jaskier has ADHD, and they learn to compromise.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 64
Kudos: 1331





	the kindest thing

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](https://lilacsdandelionsandonions.tumblr.com/post/190768550615/punk-jaskier-three-words-or-less) post.
> 
> Title taken from "The Rockrose and the Thistle" by the Amazing Devil, but you know that.
> 
> Enjoy!

Geralt hates taverns. They’re so crowded and loud, so many conversations around him that he can’t tune out. Full of smells, food and sour ale, and _people_ , whether unwashed or too perfumed. And sometimes, he’s lucky if he’s even allowed inside, left unharrassed long enough for him to finish an ale or two, which helps dull his senses, takes all the sounds and smells down from _too much_ to… just enough, like the opposite of a potion.

And yet, here he is. He’s not sure why he even bothers to come sit and drink, surrounded by people, instead of simply checking the bulletin for flyers and leaving. It’s so much more peaceful by himself, out on the road, just him and Roach. No one else for miles. Not having to talk to anybody.

_You think you’re safe_

_Without a care_ _－_

Ah, fuck. Music. He could do without that, as well. It’s so distracting.

* * *

Jaskier… is _too much_. Geralt can hardly get a thought in edgewise before it’s interrupted by that incessant chatter. No wonder he breaks his usual rule about scrapping with humans, after Blaviken, and resorts to punching him in the gut. He does feel a little guilty about it. But not as guilty as he’d feel if the bard ends up getting mauled by whatever beast the locals have mistaken for a devil.

And yet, the bard doesn’t get the hint. Even after getting kidnapped and beaten by elves. He’s still following him, back to the tavern to collect payment. And he earns enough coin with the new song to get a room right next to his, though the witcher has to physically shove him out to get him to go stay in his own bed instead of talking all night.

Geralt tries to leave early the next morning. He would’ve thought that the bard would be the type to sleep late. And yet, he’s there having breakfast at dawn, which he promptly abandons so he can follow the witcher out the door and towards the stables.

But if he really wanted to get rid of Jaskier, he could just nudge Roach into a run and leave the bard behind in the dust. But… he doesn’t. Jaskier’s chatter isn’t quite as grating as it had been earlier. He’s gone from being too much to just enough.

Besides, it’s been a long time since anyone has actually sought out the witcher’s company, so badly. It might even be the first time.

And at least the bard smells… not bad. Pretty good, actually. His dandelion perfume isn’t overwhelmingly strong, and underneath that, his natural scent is sweet. A little musky, with what the witcher can’t help but recognize as _lust_ , but, well, he’s young. Probably thinking of naked women all the time. Maybe naked men.

Hmm.

* * *

Jaskier is used to a less-than-warm reception. After all, he’s a bard. They have a reputation. Probably based quite unfairly on the lesser of his profession, or perhaps spurred by jealousy of the talent and good looks it takes to be a successful performer. No matter. It’s free bread.

Besides, even before taking up barding, he’s always been loud. And, admittedly, annoying. He’s been told by strangers and lovers alike that he’s _too much_.

So it’s fine that the witcher isn’t exactly friendly. If he is terse with his replies, when he bothers to even respond at all, and doesn’t simply walk away in the middle of conversations.

And he can take a gut punch. Not to mention a hint, which he decidedly ignores. For all that Geralt isn’t friendly, there’s also something… not unfriendly about him. He doesn’t feel spiteful in spirit. More _tired_ than anything.

Maybe he’s just fooling himself. But then again, why would anyone drink in a tavern alone, unless he actually secretly wanted some company?

* * *

If Geralt really wanted to get rid of him, he could’ve taken off on Roach at full speed. But he didn’t.

Jaskier does make an effort to talk a little less. It’s somewhere between a show of gratitude, being permitted to tag along, and trying not to push his luck. Instead, he tries to keep the noise down to humming, which Geralt doesn’t protest out loud. Sometimes strumming on his new lute. And then, rather than try to draw the witcher into conversation, he settles for talking to himself, almost under his breath.

But the rest of the time, he can’t help it. He’s got so many questions, about witchering and monsters, past exploits and future adventures. And then the rest of the time, he talks about himself. By the time they set up camp, the witcher knows where Jaskier was born, what he studied at Oxenfurt, and how he lost his virginity. If he’d been listening.

There’d been some _hmm_ -ing. A couple of monosyllabic answers. And a handful of precious phrases, little fragments of stories, which could be songs, later, if he manages to crack the witcher further.

And best of all, during the virginity story, Geralt had even asked, “And then what?” So he’d listened to that one, at least.

After a meager dinner of cured meat and berries, Jaskier takes out his new lute.

“No,” says Geralt.

“Come on,” says Jaskier. "This is my livelihood! I don't want to get out of practice! And who doesn't like _music_?－"

Geralt gets up, as if he’s going to just walk away from a warm fire and bedroll, not to mention his horse tied to a nearby tree. But he does exactly that.

“Geralt!”

“Stay,” growls the witcher.

Maybe he just needs to go relieve himself. Well, fine, he’s not so desperate for attention that he’s going to follow him and try to chat him up while he’s doing _that_.

But then he stays away, for a little too long. Perhaps more than a piss, then. So he waits another twenty minutes, thirty…

What are the chances that a witcher could get snatched by something out there and eaten up?

At last, he can’t help it. He gets up to wander off into the dark and find him.

“Geralt?”

He nearly trips over the witcher, who’s kneeling on the ground, as if in prayer. Geralt growls.

“Sorry, sorry,” says Jaskier. “Uh… what are you doing out here, exactly?”

Geralt draws a breath, as if he’s about to say so much more than what ends up coming out. “I needed… _quiet_.”

Something about the way he struggled to even say it sinks in Jaskier’s stomach. In spite of the witcher’s deep growl, the simplicity of his speech almost seems childlike.

Jaskier reaches out to lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. But Geralt flinches back, turning sharply, with a low growl.

“Whoa there, easy, easy,” says Jaskier. “What, do you think a _bard_ is about to try and take the White Wolf?”

It’s surprising, how easy that rolls off his tongue, instead of the Butcher of Blaviken. He nearly can’t even believe that’s the man sitting before him, looking, for all his size, almost small.

“Don’t touch me,” says Geralt, softly. Not a warning. A plea.

“Right,” says Jaskier.

That’s disappointing. He wants so badly to touch him.

* * *

They come to a compromise. Jaskier will be quiet in the mornings, after they pack up camp and set out. Actually quiet, no humming or strumming. So Geralt can have some time to think and enjoy the birdsong. Then, in the afternoons, humming and strumming, some light conversation. Jaskier can talk, and he will listen. Then, after pitching camp, Geralt can get his fill of more silence by hunting something for dinner. While they’re eating, he’s willing to have a bit of back and forth, actually answer some questions. At last, when their bellies are full, mostly quiet. But strumming is fine.

Strumming is good, actually. Sometimes a little singing, as long as it’s low and gentle. And, preferably, with lyrics that are _accurate_.

* * *

Jaskier finally unlocks the secret to getting Geralt to talk.

It’s monsters. He will answer any question about monsters. And talk, sometimes at _length_. Their longest conversation to date centers around the similarities and differences between strigas and bruxas.

Geralt actually approves of his next song. It’s simple, just an alphabetical bestiary. Probably because it’s _accurate_ , if a little heavy on the slant rhymes. It's not as popular in taverns, but on their way through town, Jaskier overhears some children terrorizing each other, imitating the monsters as they sing, and that's even better.

But Jaskier doesn't mind being the talker in the relationship. He knows now that Geralt does listen, and if he doesn't answer, not with words, he's not just being terse. He simply seems to be a bit tongue-tied, like a witch cursed him to a limit of words he's able to speak before he goes mute. Except it's not a curse. That's just how he is.

And Jaskier is getting better and better at interpreting those _hmm's_.

* * *

Jaskier starts to notice things. For a witcher, Geralt is so… well, there’s no other way to put it… _sensitive_. About so many things.

Geralt gets particularly grumpy in the mornings if Jaskier leaves the shutters of the inn window open. His cat-eye pupils go so narrow they nearly disappear, and he grumbles, hiding his face from the light.

When they have enough coin to sup at taverns, Geralt will not try any new foods. No matter how often Jaskier offers bites of whatever local specialty he’s ordered this time. The witcher likes his meats and vegetables practically unseasoned, and regards any spices with suspicion. And gods forbid any of those spices are _spicy_. He complains if his meal has a little extra _pepper_ , saying that it’s “too much”.

Smells might be the worst. Obviously, nobody likes bad smells. No wonder the witcher is so grumpy all the time, when it’s his job to kill some of the worst-smelling creatures in the world, and sometimes without a river nearby to wash up, or enough coin to order a bath. But the first time Jaskier opens uncorks a bottle of scented oil to offer Geralt, in an attempt to cover up the deathly grave hag stench with a little jasmine, the witcher growls and covers his nose as if the flowers are somehow _worse_.

So Jaskier makes some adjustments. He makes sure that the shutters of their room are always closed. He eases off the teasing when Geralt orders steak and potatoes again. And when he saves up enough coin, he buys more subtle oils and perfumes. Roses, pine, or mint are too much. But bergamot and chamomile draw only a gentle, slightly pleased _hmm_ from Geralt.

Funny that Geralt has never complained about his dandelion perfume, though. Jaskier makes it himself, since dandelions are plentiful on the road, so no matter how empty his purse, he can always smell sweet. It’s not the strongest scent, meant more to surprise any lovers that bend to kiss his neck than make passersby turn their heads. And yet, Geralt says he can smell it across a crowded tavern.

That explains a _lot_.

* * *

Geralt doesn’t like being touched. Not that it happens often. Most people aren’t brave enough to lay hands on a witcher. But those that do aren’t usually gentle. They’re lucky that after Blaviken, the witcher isn’t in the habit of _butchering_ anymore.

But Jaskier doesn’t like walking away from fights. And he doesn’t like the word _butcher_ , either.

This time, the heckler and his friends are between them and the exit. Usually the witcher always tries to seat them closer to the door, but the tavern had been crowded. And, for once, instead of his attention fraying and snapping on every conversation he couldn’t tune out, he’d been focused. Jaskier’s voice had centered him.

He’d let his guard down. But he shouldn’t have.

Jaskier throws the first punch. But Geralt pushes him out the way before one of the other men can retaliate, using _Aard_ to shove all three back.

It’s not long before they’re all on the ground, still breathing, but not getting up anytime soon. But by then, the chorus of _butcher_ has only caught on. They can’t fight the whole tavern.

No one else tries to challenge the witcher on his way out, giving him a wide berth.

Now that it’s over, his blood no longer pounding, instinct guiding his fists, it’s like those unfamiliar hands are all over him again, their touch sunk deep. It makes him stiff, like a frightened animal, as if his mind can’t tell the difference between a killing blow and a helping hand. But most touches he gets may as well be meant to kill. So he shies from them all just the same, like he’s about to die.

“Geralt－”

There’s a hand on his shoulder. On instinct, the witcher grabs the wrist, nearly goes to _twist_ it－but a soft gasp stops him.

Jaskier’s blue eyes are wide, staring at him, his arm in Geralt’s grasp shaking a bit. But while the bard’s scent is bitter, still riled from the fight, there’s no sour edge of fear. There’s even still an unlikely hint of sweet, unable to be snuffed out.

Geralt lets go, turns away, his guts roiling with shame. He nearly storms off.

But then a hand stops him, again. This time, he knows whose it is. He turns to Jaskier, but can’t quite voice his question. Why would he brave another try?

“It’s just me, Geralt.”

Jaskier draws closer, his hand still on his shoulder. It’s warm.

But then he withdraws.

“I’m sorry,” says Jaskier. “I know you don’t like to be touched.”

Geralt nearly leaves it at that. The pathway between his mind and his throat feels closed, all the words dammed up. But somehow, he breaks through it.

“Not by most,” he says. “But you－”

His throat nearly closes up again. He swallows through it. “You _may_.”

Jaskier smiles, all bitterness fading now. His palms come up.

“Not too much,” says Geralt, backing up. That’s been enough, for now. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if those warm hands found him again.

* * *

Usually whenever Geralt needs to be touched－whenever he can’t stand the ache anymore－he pays coin for it. It’s easier that way.

But now Jaskier touches him all the time. A hand on his shoulder to get his attention. A chiding bump with his shoulder or affronted swat with the back of his hand. Sometimes brushing a stray lock of hair out of his face.

It’s not too much. Not too much at all. In fact, maybe it’s not quite enough.

* * *

They put Geralt's limit to the test when it starts getting cold.

Jaskier just tries to endure it, at first, thinking there's no other choice. He doesn't want to be left behind if his human vulnerability gets too inconvenient for the witcher. But his clothes, for all their finery, are flimsy. And they have no blankets. Witchers must run hot.

The first two nights aren't so bad. He somehow manages to fall asleep, in spite of the discomfort.

But on the third night, he shivers.

Just when he wonders whether Geralt would notice, if he borrowed his cloak－of course he'd notice, probably complain that he'd gotten his smell all over it－he yelps as a hand grips him in the dark.

"Shh."

Geralt grumbles as he puts his arms around him, pulling Jaskier into his chest.

"Umm, Geralt?"

Jaskier feels more than hears the half-hearted growl.

"What are you doing?"

"You were shivering," says Geralt. "Woke me up."

Whatever happened to not liking touch?

Jaskier spends half the night－actually, probably just a couple minutes, because witchers really do run warm, and it's so comfortable－ worrying that Geralt hates this, that he's crawling out of his skin. But in the morning, they're not just side to side. Somehow, he's curled on top of Geralt, his head on his chest, their legs tangled. And the sun is already up. Usually the witcher rises before it.

They go back to sleeping on their own sides when they bed at inns, for the worse winter nights. Up until a particularly hard hunt through the snow, so cold Jaskier had to stay behind. Which is for the best, so a hot bath is ready when Geralt comes back stiff and growly, seemingly unable to form words.

But he eases after the bath. He even lets Jaskier rub his shoulders with chamomile oil, like he's offered before, having noticed the way the witcher rolls his shoulders sometimes, even rubs his own back. He's never agreed till now.

And then, when they settle into bed afterwards, even though there's a fire going, Geralt grabs Jaskier and rolls him on top, their bodies flush.

Jaskier can't help but rub his cheek into that big, solid chest. "Have you gotten used to this?"

Geralt hums in approval. "You're heavy."

" _Hey!_ "

"It's good," says Geralt. "Feels good."

Sometimes, when they're like this, Geralt buries his nose in his hair, breathing deep. Jaskier pretends not to notice.

* * *

It scares Jaskier, the first time it happens.

They’ve been all over town, searching for a man-eating troll. And Geralt hates town, with all its sounds and smells that are apparently too much for him. But the witcher never gives up on a job. After a long and bloody fight, they have to endure so many stares and gasps and little yelps of fright from the busy marketplace crowd as they walk down the street, the witcher covered in blood, clutching the hair of a severed head.

Jaskier wants to try and ground him with a hand on his shoulder. But Geralt tends to flinch from his touch while they’re in public. It will have to wait till they’re alone. He’ll wash Geralt’s hair and rub his shoulders with chamomile oil. It’s the least he can do to try and make up for all those stares, the fear the witcher says he can _smell_.

And then someone throws a stone.

Jaskier screams, his voice shaking with rage. “Who threw that? It’s your head I’ll have next, you whoreson!”

“ _Jask_ ,” says Geralt. It barely leaves his throat.

Jaskier recognizes that tone. Geralt’s words fail him sometimes, and it’s happening now. Even his yelling might’ve been too much.

They press on, towards the house of the councilman who hired them. Jaskier takes the liberty of counting the coin for Geralt, who stares blankly, still clutching the dripping head.

“Where’s the rest?” asks Jaskier. “You’re short.”

The councilman simply leans back in his chair. “Well, you got blood on my rug.”

Geralt doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything.

Jaskier struggles to keep from lunging across the desk and grabbing the man by the collar. The councilman could probably have them both hanged. But his witcher earned that fucking coin.

So he tries his best to keep his voice even. “It will wash out. Have your laundress soak it in vinegar. It shouldn’t cost more than a few extra copper. Trust me, I’ve done the same with this very doublet.”

“What difference does it make?” asks the councilman. “Can this beast even count?”

Geralt growls and tosses the head on the desk, scattering paper, splattering blood. Understandable, but… not the most persuasive response.

They don’t get the full payment. In fact, they’re probably lucky that the guards didn’t take back the purse. Geralt goes quietly, enduring the unfamiliar hands on his arms, but Jaskier sees the way his whole body quakes.

Outside－thrown in the mud－his witcher won’t get up. He’s too heavy to be moved. And he growls like he doesn’t even recognize Jaskier, showing his teeth.

Jaskier can’t do anything but sit and wait. Kneeling in the mud, putting himself between the stares of passersby and Geralt. Maybe it’s only minutes. But it feels like hours.

At last, he lays a tentative hand on Geralt’s shoulder. No growling. And that stare is a little more focused, his pupils growing from slits to nearly full.

“Come on, Geralt.”

Geralt still doesn’t say anything. But he allows himself to be led through the streets back to their tavern room, stripped and steered into a bath, where he closes his eyes for a long time.

Jaskier sings to him, low, barely above a hum, pouring water down his back. Then he goes quiet, wondering if that’s what the witcher would prefer but can’t say, silence.

Geralt’s voice is low and ragged. “Don’t stop.”

* * *

Jaskier seems to notice the signs sooner. Geralt will push himself past his limit, if need be, for the sake of a job. But it happens less often when Jaskier is there counting his words, keeping track of sounds and smells that could be bothering him, and helping to hurry them along. If there's need of information, it's easier to let the friendly bard do the talking to the locals, so the witcher gets to save his words for when he needs it.

And Geralt doesn't have to spend his energy for the sake of company anymore, going to taverns and drinking alone just to be near people－loud, smelly, overbearing people. Jaskier is his company now. And when he wants more conversation than Geralt can offer, he doesn’t draw out their tavern visits any longer than necessary. Even to the point that he’ll make a show of yawning, sometimes only an hour into drinking and dining, and, turning to the witcher with a grin, say, “Let’s turn in, shall we?”

Jaskier even picks less fights, learning when he can get away with getting up in someone's face, and when he needs to let _butcher_ slide, for the sake of Geralt's peace. Sometimes quiet resignation is easier on him then loud defense. But Jaskier often finds revenge in other ways, like learning a certain bully's name and writing a nasty ditty in his honor, or if he can manage, paying a visit to the man's wife the night before they leave town.

Even some of the jobs get easier. Rather, the part where he has to deal with people, sometimes worse than the monsters. He's gotten cheated out of payment less, with a mouthy witness by his side, ready to memorialize everything in song. And pushing himself through all the bad smells and bad sounds and bad touches is easier knowing that on the other side, there's good smells and good sounds and good touches waiting. Jaskier will draw him a bath, sing to him, rub his aches away with sweet, subtle chamomile, and curl on top of him, heavy and comforting, like a shield between him and the rest of the world.

* * *

Jaskier still asks, “Do you need to be alone?”

Every once in a while, the answer is yes. He still needs quiet, sometimes.

But, more often the not, Geralt will shake his head, and say, “Stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! <3
> 
> If you have any autistic Geralt headcanons, tag me on my [tumblr](https://lilacsdandelionsandonions.tumblr.com), please!


End file.
